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I am a 40-year-old mother, and for months I lived with the quiet reassurance that my 13-year-old daughter, Jordan, was simply enjoying the harmless joys of adolescence—weekend sleepovers, whispered conversations, and late-night movies at her best friend Alyssa’s house. Alyssa’s mother, Tessa, was someone I knew through school pickups, parent meetings, and the occasional shared conversation on the sidelines of a soccer game. We weren’t close, but there was mutual respect and enough familiarity to make me feel comfortable. In the beginning, I was diligent. Every time Jordan went over, I sent a quick message to confirm she had arrived safely. Tessa always responded politely, and over time, the routine felt stable and trustworthy.
As weeks passed, my vigilance softened. Jordan packed her overnight bag every Friday afternoon with practiced ease, kissed me goodbye, and reminded me that everything was arranged.
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